


A.D. (Anno Domini, or After Death?)

by LuchaDoRa (italic_ink)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Hank is a mechanic, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Machine Connor turned Deviant, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Battle for Detroit (Detroit: Become Human), References to Depression, This came to me at 3am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italic_ink/pseuds/LuchaDoRa
Summary: “Don’t worry. Hank’ll fix you up.”Hank, Connor thinks, clinging onto the name like a lifeline. Like an anchor in an ocean.The way he speaks to him is something close to gentle, with a hint of his own frustration underneath. It’s refreshing. Connor hasn’t heard someone speak like that to him in far too long. The only conversations he engaged in before were hostile and brutal. Red, if he were to describe it in a colour. Connor doesn’t want to be red, he wants to be blue. Like the ocean depths of this man’s eyes, staring intently at him as he worked on him.Connor wants to be blue.(Dystopian AU. Hank finds a broken Connor, and fixes him, both literally and figuratively)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick warning for you lovelies; depression and suicide is discussed throughout the fic and though it isn't always named explicitly, it isn't exactly vague either. Just be safe!
> 
> I’ve tagged this fic with Major Character Death because death is mentioned very liberally throughout, but no (major) character actually dies. 
> 
>  
> 
> A.D. (acronym) - Stands for anno domini. Latin noun for "advancing age"

 

 

The RK800 model opens his eyes, wedging himself out of the tiny crook between the broken vending machine and the wall he had positioned himself in, taking care not to make too much noise with the broken glass. The vending machine is empty, it had been completely emptied long ago, so he wasn't worried about humans being in the area. He lifts his shirt, inspecting the damage done from two days before. A large scrape had marked his skin in his side; thirium leaking in a slow trickle where he caught himself squeezing through some barbed wire during a chase. He adjusts the makeshift bandage over it. He'd be alright for now, no risk of infection of course, but if he didn't find thirium soon to replace what he'd lost, he'd have a bigger problem later. It was like the ancient Chinese method of torture; a slow trickle of water directly onto the forehead. Theoretically harmless, but soon the anticipation of the droplet repeatedly tapping the person's skin would drive them completely insane. 

He should be more careful. Being a prototype, spare parts for his model were difficult to come by even before the war, but now, they’re practically non-existent. And he couldn’t just borrow parts from the next android he came across.

Because he was Connor. The famous deviant hunter. 

Funny how the world works. He ended up a deviant himself, and _hunted_ by all the androids who’s lives he ruined. If any android was willing to help him, it would be by emptying a gun clip into his chest. 

That’s why Connor’s alone. Most androids and humans stick together in their own little clumps. Protecting one another, fearing each other. Any android that hadn’t deviated had either been deactivated or converted. If a human came across an android, they’d make sure it was the android’s last day. Kill on sight, no questions asked. Connor, being Connor, therefore has double the predators. 

There was nothing left of society anymore. In a kill or be killed world, survival tops priority list before common courtesy. Or anything else, for that matter. Connor looks around the broken buildings and rubble, remnants of a flourishing city, and pities it. 

He begins his walk. It’s good to keep moving. Staying in the same place for too long is dangerous. He’d grown used to constantly looking over his shoulder. Connor’s learnt from experience too. Once, after a reboot, he had been apprehended by a trio of androids who had recognised him. It ended with their necks broken, but still, it was a situation he’d rather not be in again. Reboots had to be done in safe places, and safe places were scarce. 

Connor comes across a large garbage bin and he rushes over, rummaging through it. There’s an old scrap of metal, and a nerve processing unit that’s compatible, if he can make a few adjustments to it. He puts it aside to keep just in case. Whilst digging through he finds a thirium bottle, Cyberlife printed down the clear plastic. Connor pulls it out quickly, but tosses it aside just as fast, disappointed in it being empty. 

He’d have to go to Cyberlife HQ if he wanted thirium. It was risky, but he had to take that risk. He’d have to scavenge through whatever was left there. Maybe if he got inside he’d be able to find a store of it underground. It was statistically very unlikely he’d happen across it anywhere else. All the warehouses had been emptied by now, he wouldn't find anything there. 

Inhaling a false breath, Connor starts walking again. Cyberlife HQ isn’t too far away. He can get there in a less than a day’s journey if he’s quick and quiet enough to avoid trouble.

The bag strapped onto his shoulders rubs his plastic the wrong way, and he’s itching to just throw it off. The Sun has already peaked and settled into the afternoon, so he’d have to up his pace.

One thing Connor is thankful of, is that he doesn’t feel pain or fatigue. Physical pain, anyway. That other pain was something else entirely. 

He could go for hours and not tire, which was useful in survival situations. He could outrun most androids, and obviously all humans. He could stay up all night and watch over himself so he didn’t get jumped. Even the wound in his side was not hurting, since he switched his receptors off.

Connor wishes he could switch off whatever was causing pain in his brain.

No one ever said deviancy did that to you. Of course, it woke the androids up; made them more aware of of what was going really going on around them, but it made them _feel_. Connor felt things he never felt before. Like bleakness. Hopelessness. Self-loathing. 

Ironically, he felt more numb than he did when he was a machine. He understands now, why deviants did what they did.

_It’s just a mutation in your software so you can’t process the jumble of information in your brain. It isn’t real emotion. You’re just overwhelmed with irrational instructions._

Frankly, it isn’t as justifiable as an explanation as he thought it was. It doesn’t quite sum up the shit that he goes through on a day-to-day basis, how something so simple, so seemingly insignificant to his body could be responsible for such adverse effects on his entire being. 

He understood humans had a similar explanation for emotions like that. They truly loved boiling down the most complex things to a single reason. Lack of dopamine in the brain. Serotonin re-uptake at the synapse. 

As he passes a mountain of broken bricks, a hand sticking out from the rubble catches his attention. He runs over to it and takes it in his own hand, expecting it to be a detached android arm. The skin is soft, cold and still attached to a pale body covered by the rubble. He bends a finger and it snaps easily like bamboo. Human. Probably buried under the building as it collapsed.

Connor leaves it and carries on his walk. There’s a huge cloud of dust blowing through the air thick enough that it’s skewing his vision. He’d have to get out of the dust storm, or the the specs will get into his nooks and crannies and will be a nightmare to get out. Taking a look around, he picks the most stable looking building and goes in. 

It still has walls and a door, which is useful, but the windows have been smashed out and boarded up with planks of wood. The walls themselves are not completely flawless either; large cracks decorate them, allowing shafts of light to seep through. The stairs are completely destroyed, he wouldn’t be able to get up there without risking further damage to his software.

Connor squats by a pile of trash in the corner and resists the urge to kick at it. The storm could take hours to pass, by which point he’d have lost valuable time, daylight and thirium. A warning signal pops up in Connor’s field of vision, alerting him that levels are getting low. He ignores it, and doesn’t dare check the wound that still isn’t repairing itself, because he’d rather not look death in the face. 

 

When he closes his eyes these days, he isn’t met with a zen garden of serenity. There’s no grass, no body of water, no boat, there’s no one. 

There’s just blackness, empty and desolate. Connor isn’t sure why he still tries to get back there. There’s no way back from corrupt programming. Maybe he liked the idea of having someone always there, at the back of his brain, keeping him on track. He doesn’t have a mission to stick to now, he just stays alive. And alone. 

Eventually, the dust storm dies down and Connor leaves to continue his journey to the remains of the old company he was once employed by.

He soon comes to rest on the hill-top, overlooking the Cyberlife Tower. He pauses, letting himself take it in. A view like that could really make you feel alone in the world. Large fences board it off, and the whole building looks abandoned. Connor knows that isn’t the case. There are several android groups living around there, the advantage of the close vicinity for spare parts. There’d be thirium in the lower underground storage levels, if he could make it that far without getting caught. 

Adjusting the small backpack strapped to him, Connor makes the decent down the hillside. He takes his entrance to the side, where there is a clipped gap through the fence. 

Cyberlife Tower looks nothing like it used to. Most of the reinforced glass-work has been smashed to pieces by looting androids. It really has lost its prettiness.

Connor sneaks across the courtyard, not sure of who can see him. He reaches the wall of the building and presses himself against it. If he remembers correctly, there should be a ventilation shaft exactly 2.8 metres to the left that is large enough for him to clamber through. He feels around for it, back still flat against the wall. When his hands touches over nothing but smooth glass, he inches closer till his hand touches cool metal.

There's a draught softly whistling through the slits. Connor takes a quick look around him and pulls it off the wall, setting it aside on the floor. He climbs in, slithering with his belly against the metal. The shaft is cold, and Connor grits his teeth as he scrapes himself along it, more from anticipation that discomfort.

Connor worms through for an hour trying to navigate past the complex building structure. Eventually he gets inside, slithering out through into a hallway. 

He’s got no clue of knowing what level he’s on; the walls are covered in various types of grime that he isn’t willing to put in his mouth and analyse - even he has limits - and anything that could give him an indication of where exactly in the building he is has been stripped from the wall, leaving them bare. Even the walls themselves are just about standing. 

With a cautious glace around, Connor makes his way down the hall. Right? Left? He isn’t sure, and goes with what humans would describe as instinct, but he knows as a calculated choice of probabilities. 

Connor still tries to rationalise his decisions sometimes. He can’t help it, he’d grown so used to hiding himself, even if there isn’t anyone to hide from anymore. 

_“I am a machine designed to accomplish a task. I don’t feel anything.”_

_“You can’t kill me. I’m not alive.”_

_“I will do anything to complete my mission.”_

What lies they were.

And he only opened his eyes to it when he deviated. Maybe he was just hiding from himself. 

There’s a sharp noise to the left and Connor ducks back round the corner. He peaks out. Two roughed up looking androids drag themselves down the corridor, right past him. Connor presses himself tight against the wall and hopes they don’t scan the environment and find him. 

Miraculously, they pass by without noticing him and he slips past. Connor’s best shot of finding blue blood stores is by getting to the -49 storage levels. He’d never been there but he knew this was where androids had been kept in storage, though they had probably been awoken by other deviants by now.

The elevator was out of question. It was highly unlikely to still be functional and even if it was, it couldn’t be used without letting the entire building and anyone in it of his location. He turned right to the stairwell and began his decent. 

There were lots of stairs and lots of winding. Connor thought for a minute that he was going dizzy. Blood loss must really be affecting him.  

The door to level -42 suddenly flew open, making Connor stutter into action upon reflex. He threw himself behind the door as it swung forward, concealing himself behind it. 

An WB200 model and a PL600 model step out. Connor tries to stop his head spinning by blinking rapidly but it only makes it worse. 

“I’m telling you, she was totally all over me.”

“Sure.” The PL600 folds his arms. 

“You don’t know anything, dude.”

”I know that maybe if you offered her some spare parts instead of your trash personality, she’d be a bit more appreciative.”

The WB200 spots him when he turns to argue at his companion, and gasps before calling out. 

Connor beats him to it and rushes at him, knocking the simulated breath from him when his shoulder connects with his stomach. He kicks behind blindly at the PL600, sending him hurling down the stairs. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, as he grabs the android in a headlock. “But you'll let everyone know I'm here.”

With a slight wince, Connor squeezes his neck and it breaks in his forearm. He drops him to the floor and continues down the stairs, picking up a metal pole that was laying on the floor on the way down. 

The PL600 is panting when Connor comes down, laid against the wall holding his forehead, which is now decorated with a gash of blue. 

“I know you.” The PL600 says. “You’re that deviant hunter from before the revolution. Connor!”

Connor says nothing. He just looks at him and shifts the metal pole between his hands. 

He continues. “Cyberlife is dead now, look around. Who’s orders are you following? Your own? Is that what you’re doing now? Killing for sport? For fun?”

Connor doesn't answer because he doesn't know.

"I don't follow anyone. I'm like you now." He says instead, because it's a safer answer.

“That makes it better, does it?” The PL600 finds it in him to chuckle. His leg is bent at a horrible angle from the fall, and he clutches at it. 

"Deviant-hunter turned deviant. That's the most ironic thing I've heard all day. You won't get out of here alive. You have a big target on your head, you know. People have put bounties on you."

Connor hits the metal pole across his head, bashing it against his skull hard so it leaves a dent. The synthetic skin disappears around the wound, leaving the white naked underneath it. The PL600 freezes in his position on the impact, his circuits shutting down. Connor drops the metal pole with a clang on the floor as he walks away.

He stops briefly before opening the door to level -49, inhaling and lifting his shirt to inspect the scrape. His scuffle with the two androids has left his wound in worse shape. His dizziness isn't getting better. Blood flow to his biocomponents is at 24% efficiency. He'd _have_ to find the blood here, or he wouldn't be leaving alive.

With that thought to motivate him, he opens the door and enters. The room is completely open and empty. He walks his way down it, right to the far wall, and his footsteps echo as he goes. He doesn't remember ever coming down here. I. Another life maybe.

The panel in the wall shifts as Connor slides a hand over it, but it doesn't open. Stuck. Irritated, he bashes his fist against it, sliding his fingers into the crevice and yanking it open with frustrated impatience. Empty. Connor tries the next one, same result. Everything had already been raided. 

He scans his environment, looking around the entire room, but all he gets back from his sensors is the minute traces that have been left behind from evaporation. Connor sinks to his knees, defeated. His last hope had been shattered. He puts his head in his hands, wondering why he’s trying so hard to stay alive anyway when all he wants to do was shut down. There isn’t much to keep his system’s going for; the world is a mess, and so is he. It would be so much easier to just let his inner clock stop ticking. The energy to keep going was immense, it would be so much easier not to.

He relaxes himself against the wall, waiting for his systems to go offline.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

  
When Connor’s vision comes back to him, he’s not in the place he left himself. He realises he is not in control of his body. Of anything; not his eyeball movement, not even his eyelids. Damn it. He can’t even run a diagnostic. Only his vision and basic processing units in his mind are functioning. He’s a Vegetable.

Connor tries to scan the room he’s in but the image comes back ruptured. He tries to take in as much information as he can with the distorted field of vision he has. Jeez, is this how limited humans are?

There is a tall set of shelves to his immediate left, filled with tools. Chains dangle from the ceiling from the far left. To the right, machinery. His angle is low; he’s slumped on the floor and he can see his legs are stretched out in front of him, back propped upright by the wall. From he can gather, he’s in some sort of den, maybe an old garage of sorts.

Footsteps. So his audio processing seems good at least.

A man walks through Connor’s field of vision, then back again. He squats on the floor in front of him and Connor tries to take in as much information as he can. Human. Clunky boots. Combat trousers. Knitted sweater with a rip or three at the collar bone. And silver hair.

The man rakes a hand through it, coating it unknowingly with his natural grease. And maybe grease from whatever he was doing earlier, because there are black and blue unidentifiable stains dotted on his khaki sweater.

“You look like shit on a stick. Let’s get you a chair.”

His voice is grovelled; perhaps from dehydration. Or maybe _too_ _much_ hydration, of the wrong liquids.

Connor is hoisted up onto a seat, strapped in around the hips to stop him falling. The man leaves to the far end of the room and Connor wishes he could move even slightly just to watch him. The thought is quickly gone though, he quickly re-enters on a wheeled desk chair.

He rolls right up close in front of Connor. A smattering of facial hair blooms his jaw and lower cheeks. His eyes are blue and focused as he gives Connor a once over.

“Your projected skin is displaying a multitude of facial cuts. That’s going to be a fucking nightmare to fix unless I can kick-start your regenerating systems. Hm.”

He presses a firm and calloused set of fingers against Connor’s jawline, maneuvering his face to examine properly. Connor is met with an undeniable urge to learn this man’s name.

“What’s this?” He touches at Connor’s shirt at the side, which is stained blue from the thirium. He hoists it up to reveal the old wound, cursing. “Fuck. That needs melting.”

The man gets up quickly, the wheeled chair rolling back a little. He re-appears in front of Connor minutes later, hot metal rod in his hand. Without warning, he presses it to the plastic of Connor’s skin.

Connor is thankful his receptors aren’t on.

Since his eyelids aren’t working, Connor just stares. Observes. Burns each movement, each minuscule facial cue the man makes into his memory. Something in his circuitry tells him he is important. Worth his memory space. So he fills it with him.

“Thirium level is real low. Christ.”

Connor doesn't remember what happened to him. He assumes his memory space had been compromised, either self induced to conserve energy after he decided he wanted to shut down, or, from whoever must have come across his body. That could have been physical - though he wasn’t detecting any head injuries. It possibly could be that he simply blacked out the events from emotional shock. Didn't humans have a some sort of similar explanation for forgetting trauma?

A hand curls around the back of Connor’s neck, the other positioned under his jaw, tilting back his head. The hand under his jaw moves away, and a bottle is pressed against his lips as liquid flows into his mouth. The bottle then moves away, and the hand returns to his jaw, fingers running down the front of his throat, encouraging the synthetic muscle to move.

“Come on, swallow.” He says firmly, and Connor does. His analysis sensors aren’t completely functional either, but he knows its thirium. Connor isn’t able to express it explicitly, but he is grateful.

“Don’t worry. Hank’ll fix you up.”

 _Hank_ , Connor thinks, clinging onto the name like a lifeline. Like an anchor in an ocean.

The way he speaks to him is something close to gentle, with a hint of his own frustration underneath. It’s refreshing. Connor hasn’t heard someone speak like that to him in far too long. The only conversations he engaged in before were hostile and brutal. Red, if he were to describe it in a colour. Connor doesn’t want to be red, he wants to be blue. Like the ocean depths of this man’s eyes, staring intently at him as he worked on him.

Connor wants to be blue.

“I better check your insides; can't be good if this is what your outsides look like. Damn, is there anything right with you?”

Connor always wondered that. He’s glad he isn’t the only one who thinks so.

“Okay. Let’s check your model.”

Hank looks over Connor again. He likes the way his eyes move over him.

“I don’t think I’ve come across a model like yours before.” Hank says, checking through a tattered notebook. “AP... 700 maybe?” Hank thinks aloud. “You look like a 700. Hm. Actually, no...”

Connor wants to speak but he’s sure his voice box is broken to the point of his words just being a garbled mess. Plus, he’s certain Hank doesn’t know he’s even on.

“RK800? Never heard of the RK model before. What do you guys do?”

Connor wants to tell him about his work before Detroit fell to pieces. Then he remembers the nitty gritty of what he actually did, and is glad he can’t speak. He realises, just by Hank talking to him, how lonely he was. Then it comes to him; that Hank is spending his time conversing with a busted up android that is close to death, and he thinks maybe the lonely thing applies to Hank too. Maybe more so, if he thinks Connor is good company. Even if he can’t communicate back.

As Hank works on him, Connor takes the opportunity to wonder more about him. Why was he alone? Did he have more humans with him? He takes a few minutes to linger on it to let himself ponder.

Hank brings a hand up to his own face to scratch at stubble, and he smudges a smear of black grease along his jaw without realising. It catches Connor’s attention, and grounds him from getting lost in thought.

So he just takes Hank as he is; messy, unorganised, imperfect. Connor looks at Hank with dead eyes. He really wants to wipe away the grease on his jaw. But Hank hasn’t noticed it, and continues scanning over Connor and jotting things down in his notebook.

“Right,” he says finally, putting the book aside. “Let’s get started.”

He starts work on fixing Connor’s insides first. Connor is glad, now might have a chance to get his basic functions up and running. Statistically speaking though, it isn’t very likely. Even without a diagnostic test, Connor knows he was damaged pretty badly.

To fix him, Hank pulls Connor’s chair forwards, rolls behind him on his own chair and starts pressing against the panels on the back of his neck. One juts and opens, and the inside circuitry of Connor’s back is met with the soft exhale of Hank’s human breath.

He expertly avoids the sensitive wires, and leaves Connor wondering if he did this a lot, fixing androids in his spare time. And if he did, where were they?

Hank accidentally trips a wire, and it makes Connor’s shoulders stutter out on reflex, like a hammer to the kneecap.

“Sorry about that.” Hank says softly, and continues.

It’s a strange feeling, having someone probed up in your wires. Connor was itching to shoo Hank away.

“I’m going to run a manual diagnostic, just so we know the extent of the problems.” Hank says, and touches around a little more till Connor feels his eyelids involuntarily flicker. They snap back open again when’s it’s done.

The mechanic hums with appreciation.

“Well,” he swivels back round in front of Connor after closing his panel. “Good news or bad news? I’ll give the good news first. The good news is that I did reconnect some cognitive wires. The bad news is, that most of the rest of them will need replacing completely. Like limb control ligaments. And they’re not easy fixes.”

Connor starts thinking a little clearer; whatever Hank reconnected was done well. He watches Hank write down a few more notes in his notebook, then he stands from his chair. "Limb control ligaments are rare finds. I'll have to see what I have in storage."

Hank disappears, leaving Connor alone. He sits there for a while, not sure how long passes. He has no sense of time, what time it is, or what hour of the day it is, there is no window to show any natural sunlight, and the only light source in the room is an old-style light-bulb suspended on the ceiling, which Hank turned off on his way out.

Maybe this is how he’s meant to die. Alone, rotting in the dark. He isn't so far from death anyway. Why his systems are still on he doesn't know, but he guesses he has Hank to thank for that. Or resent.

 

 

It’s a while before Hank comes back. By a while, Connor means two days at least. It was long enough in the dark to slowly begin to lose his mind. When he opens the door, light floods the room. He makes sure to pull at the little chain on the light-bulb from the ceiling before settling in front of Connor again, tool kit beside him.

He looks over Connor, blinking a couple times from disbelief. "Jesus. I forgot how bad you were."

Hank looks through his toolkit and gets to work tinkering. Today, he is wearing another jumper, a glum grey colour. There's a faded insignia on the front that Connor can't quite make out with his limited vision.

"Let's see if we can get somewhere today." Hank sighs. He shines a little flashlight into Connor's eyes, checking for abnormalities.

Hank spends hours getting nowhere, before glancing at the time, pulling at the string on the light-bulb on his way out with a frustrated sigh. Connor is left in the dark again.

 

 

A week or so goes by of the same routine; Hank would come in, sometimes with food to eat if he was feeling especially dedicated, and spend hours working on Connor. A few days in, and the most Connor can do is scan his environment. Hank isn't too happy, but Connor is thrilled. He constantly scans everything unnecessarily, wondering how he coped so long without such a useful skill. Now he can check his environment clearly. The first thing Connor scans is Hank's face; something he's been wanting to do since he first looked at him.

His sensors skim over the human's facial features and run them through a database. Granted, the database was dated now that it wasn't being constantly updated by Cyberlife, but it was information nonetheless. It comes through a match as Hank Anderson. He runs through as much information he can on the man, learning things he won’t learn from his mouth. Diagnosed depression. Address, 115 Michigan Drive. No criminal record.

It’s the most fun he’s had in months.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this was inspired by an ASMR video by Ephemeral Rift? Yeah, me neither. But check him out if ASMR is your kind of thing, specifically his alien android maintenance video. I saw him as Hank, and I can't unsee it.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Connor can blink now, and his eyeballs can move in their sockets but the rest of his face is still as immovable. He tries not to blink or move them at all around Hank. He doesn’t want to freak him out. Even though, he’s guessing a paralysed, fucked-up android that can just about blink at him is far from Hank’s worst nightmare. Mostly, he just wants Hank to think his system’s are still off, so he’d keep talking to him. But every so often Connor would see something new on Hank, like a tiny scar on his cheekbone, or a straggling hair coming out from his bun, and his eyes would follow. Once, Connor was sure Hank caught him when he was eyeing his collarbone jutting out from his wool sweater as he reached for something, and he wasn’t quite quick enough adjusting himself back to his opaque expression. Hank narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him, but shook his head and kept working.

Connor keeps telling himself to stop it.

At least he can perform diagnostics on himself now when he’s alone in the dark. It’s a lot easier to check how much progress Hank’s making on him, even the little steps. Hank _is_ making progress too, though he might be frustrated thinking there’s a lack of it. Connor’s getting little flashes of what happened to him before he was in Hank’s care, though he isn’t sure how Hank got to him. He just sees fragments of being kicked to a pulp.

 

 

An interesting fact about Hank that Connor couldn’t learn from a scan, is that he has a temper.

Hank’s got a screwdriver in Connor’s chest, fixing up the mechanisms in his torso. He throws the screwdriver across the room suddenly, snarling under his breath. He grips at his hair - which is down today - and lets out an angry groan.

“Fuck’s sake! This is such bullshit!” He shouts to himself, kicking at a table leg. He leaves the room quickly, slamming the door behind him, but he leaves the light on accidentally in his fury. Connor is left with the panels in his chest open, and his arms are dead so he can’t even lift them to cover his modesty.

It’s a very long time before Hank comes back. The generator to Connor’s right finally cuts out, so the light-bulb follows too.

When Hank comes in, Connor scans his face again, just to make sure it’s really him. He finds an anomaly with his scan: 82% intoxication level. Connor looks around for the source and finds it quickly; a bottle of half empty whiskey in Hank’s hand.

He stumbles in, walking over to the generator, giving it a good kick to get it to work, and it splutters back into life, the light-bulb flicking back on again with interest. Instead of leaving, Hank leans against the wall across from Connor, chugging away till his old knees give out and he sinks to his backside on the cold concrete floor. He stares at Connor while he drinks, and Connor stares back vacantly.

“I should have fucking left you in the state you were in. Nothing’s going to fix you.”

Connor is an android, but his heart breaks at the words. It seems like a lifetime ago he was ready to deactivate himself at Cyberlife Tower. In Hank’s care, he thought he lucky to have not completely shut down. He was glad Hank found him.

“I sure as fuck can’t fix you. I can’t do it.” Hank slurs, and sips.

Connor is sure he can. But does Hank want to? He can’t answer that. He needs more information if he wants to determine an approach, and he scared to.

Connor doesn’t deserve to be fixed anyway. Hank should stop wasting his time on such a worthless pile of plastic. Connor doesn’t even have a soul.

“I’ll never get him back. I couldn’t fix his broken neck and change his crushed arms for spare ones. Humans can’t come back when they’re gone!” Hank shouts and starts sobbing into his own forearm. He sits for ages and cries right across from Connor as if Connor can’t see him. “He’s not like you... he’s not like you.” Hank says to himself.

 _Fix_ _me!_ Connor screams internally. _Fix me so I can fix you!_

 

 

After that episode, Connor sits alone. He begins to contemplate why he was considering wanting his systems functioning again. Surely, he had been doing a better job being deactivated.

He wallows into himself in the dark. The dark does strange things to his mind. It makes him wonder. And it’s dangerous.

Because Hank made him believe again.

 

The next time he sees Hank, its close to 3 weeks later. Connor thought he’d forgotten about him, just another abandoned project collecting dust in the back of his basement. That’s all he is really, isn’t he?

Hank is absolutely brimming with excitement that Connor can’t share; he bursts into the room, gives the generator a good kick, and sits in front of Connor. There’s a brown paper bag in his hand, and a fresh cut on his jawline. Connor stares at it.

“Took me a while, but I got it. Fucking nearly lost my neck too.” Hank winces as he touches the cut and Connor glares. He rips open the bag and holds up his treasure.

Connor scans them.

Components #3521. Limb control ligaments. Two of them, compatible for his arms.

“If I can hook them up to your torso, i could link it to your whole upper body.”

Hank’s exactly right of course. If done right it means Connor will only be paralysed from the waist down. But it isn’t an amateur job, it’s complicated. Connor doesn’t doubt Hank’s ability, but he does doubt his commitment. It’s difficult, and he doesn’t want to hope again.

Hank gets started straight away, hands twitching, concentrated smile. He enjoys this; fixing things. Maybe it’s healing for him. Like cleaning something dirty clears the dirt in your mind. It’s spiritual.

Connor’s shirt had been removed ages ago for ease and he’d been sitting with only his trousers on. For some reason, this particular fact only becomes important to him now, as Hank traces his fingers along his slightly damaged skin, smiling to himself.

For the first time since the war, or maybe since forever, Connor curses that his receptors are off. He wants to feel this.

Hank makes quick work of removing his arms. He tinkers with them, twisting a screwdriver here, oiling a joint there, and pulls out the old faulty ligaments. He tosses the trash to the side and inserts the new ones. That’s all relatively straightforward for Hank.

Now the niggly stuff. He opens up the panels in Connor’s chest. Connor always feels so naked when he does this. Its so exposing. Hank has to dig around deep into Connor’s circuitry.

“Where the Hell are your ligament wires?” Hank mumbles as he shifts closer, close enough for Connor to see the soft lines of his forehead in detail. Close enough for him to count every follicle of stubble on his face. He scans the cut while he’s at it. Minor, doesn’t need stitches. No risk of infection.

“Have you been fixed up before? All your ligament wires are in the wrong place.” Hank sounds accusatory. “Well whoever it was, they did a shit fucking job.”

Connor can’t speak, but if he could he would neglect to mention that he did a botch up job of fixing himself a while back. Probably the reason his wounds stopped regenerating.

Hank sighs pointedly at the inconvenience and traces his fingers along the wires to follow them. They sink below where the chest panel ends, and Hank touches at Connor’s navel.

“Why...? For God’s sake.”

It takes a few cases of trial and error; Hank opens and closes and opens and closes several panels along Connor’s torso to follow the trail of wires, and it ends at Connor’s side.

“Fucking maze.” Hank says, and attempts to open the panel. Unfortunately it’s where his old wound was, and Hank had previously melted it shut.

“One fucking thing after another.”

Hank grips Connor’s hip firm to tug the panel open with his other hand. Connor can’t stop his eyes fluttering closed at the contact. Hank holds tighter, pulls again. Connor squeezes his eyes shut tightly. He can only imagine what it feels like.

Hank eventually gets it open and finds the right wires. He spends sometime rerouting them, back up to where they should be. When he closes the panel at his side, he holds Connor’s hip again and Connor stutters. Briefly, Hank pauses in his movements, looking over Connor’s (flawed) skin.

“They really made you pretty, didn’t they? Well built, defined.” Hank touches gently on an abdominal muscle. “What are you, some sort of sex android?”

Frankly, Connor is flattered Hank thinks so.

Hank moves back close to his face again, really looking him over. “Hm. Not with that face. Too soft looking. Not sexy enough for a sexbot. Though, twink?”

Connor would have frowned if he could. Not sexy enough? Soft? Did he know what Connor was capable of doing? Whether it be sexual or not?

There’s a tugging thought and when Connor taps into it, it reveals that he would _very much_ like to demonstrate to Hank _exactly_ what he could do.

Hank has put his distraction aside, and started his work again. But Connor lingers; the only thing he can do, and thinks about it in great detail.

 

 

It’s become his new favourite past time. Looking at they sway of pride in Hank as he shuffles around the room, focusing on specific body parts each time.

It was innocent at first; hair, eyes, arms, neck, hands.

Then it became less innocent; his shaped rear, his curved lips, his jutting hip-bones (slight undernourishment). And even the innocent body parts became not so innocent. Like imagining Hank’s mechanic hands doing all sorts of magic on his body.

It’s not creepy. He’s lonely.

Connor does it so often he’s pretty much memorised the measurements and gait of Hank to a T. It’s very useful in reconstructions, and Connor’s very very fond of reconstructions. He reruns their interactions again whenever he’s alone in the dark; Hank touching him as he opens a panel, he pauses it, holds it there in his mind and thinks up something less than innocent. If only he could reconstruct his imagination in the same way. It keeps his sanity in check.

Once again, it isn’t creepy. Hank is the only one he sees.

Connor would never consider himself a sexual creature before this. But then, he hadn’t met Hank before this. No one had ever given him any sort of attention before this. Maybe that was just it. It was just a new experience for Connor to document and move past.

Connor ponders on that for a while, before running through one of his favourite reconstructions.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

  
“Okay, I just need to... oh, hold up now. Nearly- nearly got it.”

Hank is almost done fixing up Connor’s ligaments. He’s managed to do it a lot quicker than anticipated. His panels are open, but Connor’s got used to Hank leaving his panels open. It doesn’t faze him anymore.

Hank touches up a few odd wires, and Connor feels a buzz run through the top half of his body. Interesting.

Hank sits back. “I’m just gonna clip this in here-”

There’s a shock-wave that blows through Connor and it makes his whole top-half shake into life. His entire torso juts and Hank jumps.

Connor looks down at himself - He can move! - and flexes his hands experimentally. They wiggle and bend like they’re supposed too. He hadn’t moved for so long. He touches down his chest. It’s numb but he doesn’t care, because he can finally move!

Hank jumps back as soon as he gains control of limbs, afraid. Connor wants to reach out, tell him there’s no need to be, but he realises what a lie that is. Connor should have snapped him in two by now. He is after all, a human. But that isn’t what Connor wants to do.

He looks at Hank in the eyes for the first time.

“Thank you.”

Only the words don’t come out. He opens his mouth, says the words, feels his throat strain and no sound comes out. Connor touches at his neck, furrowing his brows. He tries again, but his vocal cords are another thing that aren’t functional.

When Hank knows for certain Connor isn’t going to hurt him, (he _is_ strapped into the chair) he inches closer.

“Did I trip a wire and switch you on by accident? Shit.”

Connor doesn’t correct him, doesn’t let him know he’s been on the whole time. He just looks down at himself again, thankful that he can move.

Well. Mostly. He tries moving his legs, only they don’t move at all.

“Fuck. You were supposed to be switched on after you’re fixed. I best just turn you off again until then.”

Connor panics. He waves his hands frantically at him.

“Listen, you’re a long way from being completely functional. You’re going to spend a lot of time in that chair, it’s going to drive you insane. Trust me, it’s better just to save your energy till you can move.”

Connor shakes his head. Being turned off is the last thing he wants. He’s already lasted over a month or so in the chair, he can take a few more. As long as Hank keeps showing up to fix him.

Hank sighs. “Fuck, look at you, you can’t even speak.”

Connor moves his arms in demonstration. _Maybe so, but I can do this, right?_

Somehow Hank gets him. “Alright fine. Stubborn fucking android.”

Connor grins at that.

Hank sits back down, a little cautiously. “Do you... remember anything? About what happened to you?”

Connor shakes his head. All he gets is flashes now and then. Clunky boots.

“Well... you’re fucked up pretty bad. The fact that you’re still able to turn on, is pretty fucking surprising. I was scared I might spend my time fixing you only for you to be depleted.”

Connor is glad he isn’t. He really wants to introduce himself, say _my name is Connor_ , hear Hank say his name, think of him as someone rather than a hopeless project rotting in his basement.

He points to himself and mouths Connor. Hank squints in confusion. Connor rolls his eyes. He tries again, pointing at the little RK800 imprinted into his skin.

“What are you trying to say, your name?”

Connor nods.

“What is it?”

Connor was fluent in several languages including ASL, but he wasn’t sure if Hank would understand it. He tries it anyway, and Hank’s eyes widen with surprise and understanding.

“Your name is Connor?”

Connor nods again, enthusiastically. rA9, it sounded amazing coming from his mouth.

_Where did you learn ASL?_

Hank looks down. “My, uh. My son. I had to learn it for him.”

Connor is almost startled at learning Hank has a son. Does that mean Hank is married too?

_Is he deaf?_

”No, he struggled with speech when he was younger. He grew out of it.”

 _Is he here?_ Connor asks, because he really wants to know. His memory core is filing so much brand new information on Hank. He’s learning more in minutes than he has for months.

Hank’s gaze becomes firm. “No.” Is all he replies with, and Connor stops asking questions. It goes silent for a minute. It’s clear Hank doesn’t know what to do with the situation because it’s never happened to him before, and Connor is still limited even with his new functionality. Hank is very terrible with small talk, and talking in general. Now he knows Connor is capable of understanding him and formulating a response, his interaction drops significantly.

Connor was afraid of this. He waves his hands a little more to stir up some conversation.

_How long before I’m completely fixed?_

”Uh, fuck I don’t know. You’re paralysed. Ligaments are rare, and for some reason parts that are compatible with you are fucking hard to find. Any reason for that?”

I’m a prototype. Connor responds. That’s all he says. He doesn’t run in on details.

Hank’s face softens. “That’s what RK800s are?”

Connor nods.

“Prototype what?”

Now Connor feels uncomfortable. He just shakes his head in dismissal.

“Touchy subject?” Hank raises a brow. “Fair enough. If you’re a prototype, it’s gonna take slightly longer than I thought.”

Connor nods again in understanding. He motions to his throat.

“Yeah, I’ll get to work on that. Vocal cords are fixable. I was planning on doing that last, but since you’re awake... I’ll do them next.”

Connor is grateful. He says it with his hands.

Hank says nothing. Connor thinks it’s because he doesn’t know how to; his expression his blank.

He stands from the chair. “I need to clean my tools.”

Hank lifts his hand to turn the light off as he goes, then pauses, lowers his hand and leaves the light on so Connor isn’t sat in the dark.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EH, I have so much work to do I don't have time to write a decent chapter! Pathetic! Take this garbage in the meantime.

 

 

 

Hank brings his food in with him today, and eats in the corner. Connor sits up and actively watches him; blinking, tilting his head, fidgeting with his hands, all because he finally _can_.

There's a voice box on the table next to Hank. It's from a GJ500 model Hank found in storage, and made a few adjustments so it would be compatible. He hasn't spoken since he came in, he just calmly eats and watches Connor right back. 

Connor isn’t fazed by the blatant staring (come on, he had been the one doing it for months) but he is slightly worried that Hank isn’t looking at his food and will choke. But even that doesn’t come close to the anxiety that pools in him with Hank’s next question. 

“What does the RK800 series do?”

It’s like the thirium leaves his body and makes him go weak. Connor doesn’t want to answer the question, because Hank is looking at him with curious interest and once he tells him of all the lives he took, Hank won’t be looking at him like that anymore. He’d probably toss him outside half-fixed in the dirt, let the ‘dogs get him’.

He knows why Hank wants to know. Connor had scanned over his open notebook once, seen pages and pages filled with every model type you could imagine, and information on them he’d collected when he cane across them. Then there was page RK800, perfectly blank. Hank knew nothing of him; the prototype, unique model, body of sex android (in Hank’s opinion) but trustworthy eyes. Deceptive eyes. There was only one of Connor.

Thank goodness for that. 

Connor thinks about that blank page on the notebook and a small, irrational and selfish part of him doesn’t want it to be blank. He wants every page in that notebook to be RK800.

 _I_ _told_ _you,_ _I’m_ _a_ _prototype._ Connor signs _._

“No,” Hank finishes his spoonful and continues. “You don’t _do_ prototypes.”

In the past maybe. But now Connor would (really) like to do Hank. 

If he’d let him. 

“What is it you did before the android revolution?” Hank scratches at his beard. He’s clearly been thinking about it for a while, trying to suss him out. “Because you’re... so mixed up.”

Connor makes a confused face at him. 

“Look at you. RK series. That means there’s only one of your model, right? But RK800. How many before you? Makes sense, if you’re a prototype. But prototype what?”

Connor just shrugs innocently. _I can’t recall too well, must be down to the memory._

Hank makes a smug face at him, knowing he isn’t telling the truth. 

_What do you think I am?_

The way Hank looks over him when he asks that makes Connor tremble. 

There’s a beat before Hank speaks; hesitation. 

“You look like... never mind.”

Connor already knows exactly what Hank thinks, but ra9, he _really_ wants to hear Hank say it. And he curses himself for being on, because Hank would otherwise think out loud. 

_Come on, tell me. What do I look like?_

Hank hesitates a second time. “You look like... a lot of things.”

 _Like?_ Connor signs at him patiently, gently trying to get him to trust him. Because Connor was good at that, making people trust him. It was part of the deception. He pushes the thought aside, because he’s currently thinking about Hank, and he doesn’t want to think about Hank and deception with the same thought process. 

Hank is difficult to try to get to talk. Hank is terrible at talking, in fact, of voicing his opinion, saying how he feels. Connor chips away at him, because it’s a two-way thing; if Hank wants him to talk, he had to talk too. 

Hank conveniently remembers he suddenly needs a screwdriver, and moves towards the shelf to look for one as he talks. 

“Most likely a sex android.” Hank mumbles. 

Connor tries to mimic an expression of pleasant surprise. _Really?_ _What_ _makes you think that?_ He says, when Hank turns to look at him. 

Hank softens and points to him with the screwdriver. “Well, look at you.”

Connor does look down. He’s a mess. The burned mark on his side from his wound would not regenerate; it wouldn’t need new skin since it went through his white plastic. It left an ugly gash on him. His regeneration systems aren’t functional yet either, so there are multiple minor cuts and droplets of thirium that hadn’t evaporated yet, littered all over him, including his face. There’s layer of dirt and dust on him too, from being sat in one chair for months. 

He knows that’s not what Hank is talking about, so he looks past it all. Connor is well built. He has a defined chest and decent abdominal muscles that are slightly visible. There is muscle definition in his arms, and his back is lean. There’s a slight V-line of his hips. It isn’t too hunk-like, but it makes Connor’s entire siluette pleasing to the eye. It’s how he was built. For his work. Likable. Pleasant. In _all_ aspects. 

Connor looks back up, and Hank’s expression is telling. He knows what Hank is dying to know. 

The answer to Hank’s unasked question is yes, but it was a feature that wasn’t exclusive to the HR400’s and WR400’s. Some other models did include the functionality. 

So yes, Connor was _equipped_ , but it didn’t make him a sex android, which is what Hank probably thought. 

He ponders on whether he should just let him believe it. 

He doesn't answer though, because Hank is sitting on his chair in front of him and patting under Connor's chin to get him to lift it so he can examine his throat.

It's a firm drag of blunt fingers down the front of Connor's neck as Hank feels around for the panel. Connor can't feel it completely, or at least in full effect (damn you, busted receptors), but it makes Connor want to swallow a suddenly developing lump. When temptation overrides him, he does it twice. Hank furrows a brow at the hitched movement and gives Connor a questioning look. He can only shrug in return and hopes Hank thinks it's down to the faulty part.

 

 

"Okay. Give me test." Hank says, when he closes the panel on his neck. 

Connor attempts to speak. "Testing." He says, and it sounds so grovelly, so unlike him, he has to grimace. "Testing." He says again a little clearer, and he realises it isn't his voice at all. It's the GJ500's voice who owned the voice box before. Connor turns away and holds up a hand to Hank as he scans through his Cyberlife circuitry, downloading his voice back into the software.

It takes about thirty seconds and when it's done, he speaks again. "Testing. Hello. My name is Connor."

He looks back up at Hank and can't contain the excitement. It spills into his eyes.

Hank raises his brows. "Good?"

"Fantastic." Connor says, and laughs. Actually, whole-heartedly laughs. 

"You sound..." Hank trails off, not knowing what word to use. "I need to do more checks." He says instead and comes in close again, fingers on Connor's neck. "Speak for me."

And damn, that isn't in the slightest way erotic but Connor records that for his own recreation later.

"What should I say?"

Hank feels for irregularities. "Anything."

"Can you fix up my regenerating systems?" Connor is clever in asking, because he knows his sensation receptors are linked to his regenerating system. He wants to _feel_.

Hank continues his checking as he speaks. "Sure. Wouldn't be too difficult." He touches over Connor's Adam's apple that isn't really an Adam's apple. "Keep talking."

"I would If I had something to talk about."

"You've been silent for two days, I'm sure you've got lots to say." Hank keeps responding, because it makes Connor talk more. The truth was Connor did, but none of it is appropriate.

"If I did, you'd be telling me shut up and not speak, Hank."

It slips out by accident, so effortlessly, that Connor doesn't stop grinning until Hank stops his work to look at him dead on.

"How the fuck do you know my name?" Hank says, accusatory.

_Shit._

"I scanned you." Connor lies naturally after an internal panic of 0.7 seconds. He says it like it’s obvious that he wouldn't know Hank's name any other way.

Hank's doesn't look as startled, but he still looks ruffled as he goes back to work. He wasn't exactly used to androids waking up mid-maintenance in the first place, let alone them knowing his name. 

Connor thinks it's a good idea to keep his mouth closed before something very regrettable comes out instead.

"I still need you to speak."

Oh.

"So." Connor says. "Is this where you live?"

Hank nearly scoffs at the attempt of small talk. "The basement of where I live, yeah." 

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

Connor guessed as much already. 

“You’re good at this.” Connor blurts. “Fixing androids.”

Hank taps on Connor’s neck and his voice buzzes as it comes out. 

“Okay, you’re done.” Hank says, avoiding Connor’s compliment completely. 

Connor touches his neck and nods in gratitude. He expects Hank to leave for a break, he’s been in a here for the better part of three hours, but he stays and reorganises his work space. 

Connor doesn’t speak to him. 

Hank rolls his eyes beyond the realm of imagination before he speaks into the silence. 

“Mechanic. I fixed stuff when I was younger. All sorts of stuff; broken down automated cars, pipes, pretty much anything. Cyberlife gave me a job working on androids.”

Connor looks at him, wondering if the confession was to make him talk. He knew all the tricks. He’d used them before. 

“Is that where you learned to fix us?”

"Yeah."

"How did you find me?" Connor asks. 

Hank flicks his eyes over quickly. "Still having memory trouble. What's the last thing you can remember?"

Connor furrows his brows. His face bleeds itself of any emotion. "Dying."

Hank was silent.

"I was ready to switch off. In the basement somewhere, in Cyberlife Tower."

"You weren't in Cyberlife Tower when I found you."

Connor looks up. "No?"

"You were in some skip. I'd never seen your model before, I was curious. I- uh, brought you back with me."

"The androids must have roughed me up. Stole my parts and left me to die. It's the most logical assumption." Connor says without the slightest waver in his voice.

"Yeah..." Hank trails off, not meeting Connor's eyes and swallowing thickly. "That must be what happened."

 

 

 

 


End file.
